


Stumbling and Staggering

by kristinp



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Demon Blood (mentioned), Demons, Episode: s05e09 The Real Ghostbusters, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Sam Winchester Whump, Season/Series 05, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristinp/pseuds/kristinp
Summary: "The first thing Cas noticed when he landed in the run-down barn was the body that lay sprawled across the doorway. The second was the pitchfork currently pinning Sam to the wall."Takes place between "The Real Ghostbusters" and "Abandon All Hope."





	Stumbling and Staggering

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt "stumbling and staggering." This is my first ever fanfic, so I would love to hear what you liked and disliked about it.
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr [here](https://kpothoof.tumblr.com). Requests welcome!

Castiel flipped open the phone that was buzzing in his pocket.

“ _Cas? It’s Sam._ ” His voice had a strained quality to it. Cas could hear the shallow breaths disrupting his speech.

“Hello Sam,” said Cas in his typical monotone. “Are you alright?”

“ _No, actually, I could really use your help. Dean’s two states over chasing a lead on Crowley, otherwise I’d call him, but…can you meet me?_ ”

“Where are you?”

The first thing Cas noticed when he landed in the run-down barn was the body that lay sprawled across the doorway. The second was the pitchfork currently pinning Sam to the wall.

“Sam!” He hurried to reach the wall against which Sam leaned, dodging two more bodies as he did so.

Sam slowly raised his head. “Hey, Cas,” he said weakly.

Cas took a closer look at the pitchfork and the wound on Sam’s side. Three of the pitchfork’s prongs were lodged in the wall, but the fourth prong went completely through the muscle just below Sam’s ribs before lodging itself in the wood behind him. It looked like all of Sam’s energy was going towards keeping himself upright. “What happened?”

“Demons,” he groaned, nodding towards the three bodies on the floor. “They were about to do some kind of ritual, so I stopped them, but not before…” He gestured helplessly to the pitchfork. “Think you can get it out?”

“I believe so,” said Cas, his fingers lightly tracing over the wound. “I have to pull it all the way out of you before I can move you, but I should be able to fly you to safety before you lose too much blood.”

“Just do it,” urged Sam through clenched teeth, his fists tightly pressed against the wall.

Cas put both hands on the handle of the pitchfork. He planted his feet, took a (completely unnecessary) deep breath, and pulled.

“Gaaahh!” cried Sam as he fell to his knees, his hand immediately pressing at the flesh between the two ends of the puncture wound, which was now bleeding freely.

“Sorry,” said Cas as he quickly tossed the offending pitchfork. He snatched a blue bandana from a nearby workbench and handed it to Sam. “This should slow the bleeding temporarily.”

Sam pressed the bandana to his side. “It’s fine,” he hissed. “I’m fine, Cas, can you just get me to my hotel room so I can patch this up?”

“Of course,” he replied, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, preparing to take flight. Then he stopped. Something was very wrong.

Cas frowned. “Something is wrong with my wings,” he said. “I seem to be unable to transport us out of here. I’m not sure what’s causing it.” He tried to stretch out his wings again, his shoulders tense. “It’s as if something is pulling me down, like my wings are soaked in tar.”

Sam pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on the wall as he did so. “If I had to guess, I’d say we have the demons to thank,” he said, nodding towards the far end of the barn.

Cas turned and saw what looked like the remains of an altar, now toppled on its side, herbs and bones spilling into the dirt and hay around it. Behind the altar were several complex sigils spray painted onto the wall, one of which caught his attention.

“ _Angelus Fundati_ ,” said Cas. “The Grounded Angel. I believe I have seen this spell used before. I estimate that it will be at least five hours before I can fly anywhere.” He awkwardly rolled his shoulders, wincing in discomfort.

“Well,” said Sam, looking down at where his hand was still holding the bandana to his wound, “At the rate this is bleeding, I don’t think sitting and waiting is an option. It’s only a couple miles back into town, and the guy I rescued took the only car, so…better get moving.” Sam pushed away from the wall, nearly stumbling into Cas as he did so.

“It’s two-and-a-half miles to your motel,” responded Cas, dipping under Sam’s free arm to steady the wounded hunter. “Are you certain you can walk that far?”

“Do you have a better idea?” countered Sam. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s go.”

They slowly lumbered their way out of the barn and onto the rough gravel road leading back into town. Cas stared distantly at the crops and fields lining the narrow road ahead, trying his hardest to focus on guiding Sam forward and not on the quiet grunts and pants Sam made as they hit each dip and ridge in the uneven gravel.

“Hey Cas,” Sam said, startling Cas out of his reverie, “did you know that when cows graze, they always line up perfectly with the magnetic poles? They don’t even need the sun or a landmark, they just… _know_.” He turned to face Cas. “Why do you think they do that?”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “You want to discuss bovine physiology?”

“Not particularly,” Sam half shrugged, wincing as he stumbled over a thicker tuft of grass, “but distraction is an effective tool for managing pain and suppressing shock, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“I see,” said Cas, eyes scanning the path for more obstacles. “You seem to be very knowledgeable about healing and medicine,” he prompted.

“Comes with the territory, I guess,” said Sam indifferently. “If you’re gonna fight monsters, you have to be ready to deal with whatever happens. I mean, it’s not like we can just magically heal ourselves every time we—”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut. Cas kept his gaze forward, saying nothing. A breeze rustled through the tall grass. Cas thought he heard an owl hooting in the distance.

“Cas, I’m sorry,” said Sam, abruptly breaking the tense silence.

“For what, Sam?”

“For dragging you into this,” he replied. “Not just this, here, on this road, but for dragging you into the mess that I made.” Sam’s eyes had taken on a glazed quality, and a layer of sweat glistened on his face. “Lucifer…the Apocalypse…” He sighed before continuing. “You were a soldier, Cas. An _angel_ …and now you’re stuck down _here_ …” He swallowed hard. His gaze dropped to the ground as his words trailed off.

Cas stared intently at him for several long moments, taking in Sam’s pained, almost broken expression. “Sam…” he finally responded, “I was not forced into following you and your brother. I chose it.” He thought back to what a good, obedient soldier he used to be and shuddered internally. “I much prefer the company of humans over angels, with all of their strengths and weaknesses.”

Sam and Cas lapsed into silence as they continued their slow amble down the dark, vacant road. Cas, lost in his own thoughts, almost failed to notice the extra weight as Sam leaned more onto his shoulder with each passing step. Cas quickly tightened his grip around Sam’s waist, but the abrupt jostling pressed a groan out of Sam.

“Cas…” breathed Sam. His knees shook for a moment, halting his progress, then gave out under him altogether.

Cas turned to face Sam, then dropped into a crouch next to his kneeling form. “Let me see,” he ordered.

Sam, who had been resolutely pressing into his side, now pulled his hand away with bloody, trembling fingers. The bandana that had once been bright blue was now completely red, soaked with warm, sticky blood.

“How’s it looking?” asked Sam, no longer able to keep his weariness from his voice.

Cas swallowed. “We are less than a mile from your motel,” he evaded. “Sam, are you sure you can—”

“I’ll be fine, Cas,” Sam interrupted. “I just need a minute to catch my breath.” He clumsily rolled himself down until he was in a half sitting, half reclining position, then returned the sopping bandana to its former position on his abdomen. His pale hand stood out even more against the crimson blood, which had stained Sam’s shirt all the way down to the hemline of his jeans.

“Are you certain it is just blood loss affecting you?” asked Cas tentatively.

“What else could it be?”

Cas hesitated. “Is there a possibility…that you are experiencing withdrawal symptoms?”

Sam swallowed. “You mean from demon blood?”

Cas nodded.

Sam’s face played out a dozen different emotions before smoothing over into a commendable poker face. “No, Cas,” he sighed. “No withdrawal. Just your normal, everyday blood loss.”

“Are you certain?” pushed Cas. “Is it possible that you accidentally ingested a small amount, in the heat of battle, perhaps—”

“It wouldn’t have been possible,” interrupted Sam, “because I had my mouth taped shut.” He lowered his head, staring at his bloodied hands. “I put the duct tape on before I even entered the barn.”

Cas’s eyebrow rose the tiniest fraction of an inch. His head tilted slightly. “But...you don’t…” He trailed off, quite unsure what he was even trying to ask.

“I usually don’t need to do it when I’m with Dean,” Sam continued, his head still bowed, “but when I’m hunting demons alone…” He slowly clenched and opened his fist. “I just can’t take the risk.”

Cas shook his head, starting over. “There wasn’t any method that would have been more…”

“More what, Cas? Hygienic? Comfortable? More strategic, maybe, than walking into a den of demons while gagged, with only a recorded exorcism and a tiny dagger and no backup?”

Cas latched onto the last question out of the dozens of inquiries flying through his head. “Why _did_ you go in without backup?” he asked.

“No time,” Sam replied. “They would have killed that guy before anyone else could get there. The tape was risky, but I needed to do it.” Sam’s face twisted into an angry grimace. “I’d rather die than become… _that_ …again.”

Cas leaned forward, hoping to catch Sam’s eye. “You handicapped yourself in a high-risk situation just to avoid ingesting more demon blood?” he asked. “That was very dangerous.”

“You don’t say,” said Sam, oozing sarcasm as he adjusted his makeshift bandage.

The crinkle between Cas’s eyebrows deepened as he frowned. “Was it worth it?” he asked softly.

Sam’s head snapped up as he finally met Cas’s gaze with his own. They stared at each other for several long seconds. Sam’s pale lips tightened, and his eyes, in that moment, seemed as old as those of a millennia old angel.

Then, without warning, he looked back down at his hand again, looking quite human again, and sighed. “It’s no more than I deserve,” he muttered, more to himself than to Cas. “Not after what I’ve done.”

Cas bowed his own head, thinking back to all of the terms his fellow angels had used to describe Sam Winchester. _Lucifer’s vessel. The boy with the demon blood. The abomination._ How could these words possibly describe the sad, selfless hunter who was doing arguably more than anyone else in the battle for humanity? Dean Winchester may have been dubbed the Righteous Man for his role in breaking the first seal, but no one who actually knew Sam Winchester could say that he deserved such a title any less.

After a few more minutes of silence, Cas helped pull Sam to his feet, ready for the final leg of their arduous journey. Sam leaned very heavily against Cas, who did his best to take as much of Sam’s weight onto himself as possible. Their movements were slower than earlier, but steady enough that they reached the hotel just half an hour later.

It took Sam a few tries to unlock the motel room door, his hands weak and shaking from shock and blood loss. The pair stumbled into the pitch-black room. As Cas turned on a light to look for supplies, Sam dragged himself to the far bed and half collapsed, half rolled himself on top of the duvet.

“In my bag,” muttered Sam, his eyes only partially open, “there’s a first aid kit. Can you…” he winced as he pointed, “bring it over here?”

Cas rushed over to Sam’s duffel, pulled out the white plastic case and placed it on the nightstand by Sam’s head. “What do I do?”

“Just hand me the needle and thread,” said Sam, his words now badly slurred. “I’ll take care of it. You’ve done enough.”

“Sam,” Cas sighed, “you are not well enough to do this yourself right now. Just talk me through it. You have more medical knowledge than I do.”

“Cas, you don’t…you don’t have to stay. You’ve done more than enough just by getting me here.” Sam’s shining hazel eyes stood out starkly against his sweaty, pale skin.

“You could die if I don’t take care of you,” stated Cas bluntly. “And even if you were not in mortal peril, I would not leave.”

Sam made a sound that was a combination of a disbelieving scoff and a sigh of relief but put up no further protest. He carefully peeled off his flannel shirt, as well as the T-shirt beneath, then sagged against the lumpy pillows.

“You’ll need to start by cleaning the area around the entry and exit wounds.”

Cas worked slowly and methodically, glad that Sam was still lucid enough to give instructions. Soon enough, Sam had enough alcohol in him to slightly dull the pain, but not quite enough to stop the pained grunts any time Cas’s inexperienced hands stumbled. “You are a good man, Sam Winchester,” he commented as he tied up the last stitch on the wound. “After all of my time with the angels, living so far away from humanity, I am glad that you and your brother have shown me the goodness that humans have to offer.”

If Sam had been a little more clear-headed, he might have responded with his usual protests and apologies, and he would have tried his hardest to convince Cas that he was wrong. As it was, Sam’s brain was moving far too slowly, thanks to the blood loss and the beer he had drunk. He choked out a short “Thanks, Cas,” before laying his head back down, his body noticeably more relaxed.

The two men were saved from continuing their conversation by the shrill ringing of Sam’s phone now sitting on the nightstand. Cas looked down at Sam’s semi-conscious form and the name Dean displayed on the phone’s screen, then picked it up to answer it.

“Hello, Dean.”

“ _Cas?_ ” came Dean’s surprised voice. “ _Where’s Sam? Is he okay?_ ”

“He is here, but he is wounded.”

Dean took a calming breath. “ _How bad is it?_ ”

“I just finished stitching him up, but he has lost a lot of blood,” Cas responded.

“ _Okay, I’m on my way_ ,” said Dean. “ _Make sure he drinks plenty of fluids, and try to get some sugar in his system. Get ginger ale and gummy worms. He likes those._ ”

Cas grinned slightly as he finished his conversation with Dean. He looked over at Sam, who was now laying on his good side, his wound now clean, stitched, and dressed. If there is one thing I know, he thought to himself, it is that I must protect these two brothers, these righteous men, at any cost.


End file.
